by Gene Kranz
On July 11, nine days prior to landing, Bales modified his already lengthy listing of reasons to abort the lunar landing, adding a new entry to the trajectory and guidance section of the rules book.
Rule 5-90
Item 11, “powered descent will be terminated for the following primary guidance system program alarms—105, 214, 402 (continuing), 430, 607, 1103, 1107, 1204, 1206, 1302, 1501, and 1502.
Steve did not put program alarms 1201 and 1202 in the mission rules listing requiring an abort.
The intense training period prior to flight had found our Achilles’ heel, something that could have distracted the MCC team and crew at the wrong time. Something that could have been a mission-buster.
SimSup had won the last round.
16
“WE COPY YOU DOWN, EAGLE”
On the day before launch, I feel like I am going into the seventh game of the World Series or playing for the Stanley Cup. The energy starts flowing, and my mind is filled with thousands of bits of information that I will need soon. I am impatient, eager to get on with the mission. Even at home I pace in endless figure 8s like a large cat in a small cage, as I frequently do behind my console.
Marta has been through this before and knows there will be no relief until launch. She keeps the conversation light, but she knows I am starting to feel the pressure. This wasn’t unique to the lunar landing; it happened every mission.
July 16, 1969, Apollo 11
I am up at 4:30 on the morning of the launch, wide-eyed alert, and thinking about the countdown. There have been no phone calls, so it must be going well. I can’t wait to get to Mission Control and find out for sure. I fire up my psyche and crash around the house like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Marta tries to keep me quiet, since the kids are sleeping. As usual, she makes me an enormous lunch, generally two of everything. We say goodbye in hushed tones. I’m sure she’s glad when I leave.
Prior to launch, the pressure I feel asserts itself through nervous kidneys, until commitment of the final Go. Then I become icy calm. Other than that, I never have any problems. I sleep well. My only other on console symptoms are sweaty palms, a tendency to engrave words in the log, and the endless clicking of the ballpoint pen. The other flight directors kid me when the sweat-soaked paper curls as I write.
As I drive to the MCC, I wonder what Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Mike Collins are feeling as they prepare for this day. How do they feel as they enter the transfer van, go up the elevator, and across the platform to the command module? I believe we share the same feelings when it is time to get the show on the road. There is anticipation of the countdown reaching zero, the point at which there is no turning back. It is the final commitment.
The Black Team led by Glynn Lunney began support of the Apollo 11 countdown twelve hours before the predicted launch to support the Cape checkout of the CSM and booster systems. (The LM is not checked out during the launch day countdown and will not be powered up until shortly before the lunar landing.) In this way the teams can start working into the mission shifting cycle.
I arrive shortly after Charlesworth and Lunney have completed their handover. When Lunney goes off to get some coffee, I search for a chair. We tried labeling the chairs, but on launch day they have a habit of moving around the room and losing their labels. The back row is filled with the brass—Kraft, Bob Gilruth, and George Hage, the mission director who represented the NASA headquarters mission policy interests. As the count progresses, Charlesworth lives up to his Mississippi Gambler image. He is his usual cool self, saying little and wearing a smile across his broad face. He is ready to play any hand that is dealt him today during the Saturn launch.
There is no external indication that today is any different from any of the other days in his life, although Cliff seems to be keeping closer tabs than usual on the Trench. He likes to play mental gymnastics with his people, asking questions to which he already knows the answer, showing his guys that he has not lost his touch. Today he is pressing them harder. I think this is how he relaxes. With the uncertainties and the fast decisions we face, I think all launch flight directors search for something to feel comfortable with and hold on to. I sit to his left and enjoy watching him do his thing.
Kraft, seated on the row above us, is also having his problems. He left his heart at the flight director’s console after Gemini 76. Since that time he was faced with the formidable task of leading his four divisions into Apollo. As the count progresses toward liftoff, he becomes nervous and fidgety. He asks Charlesworth questions about the countdown. Cliff turns, frustrated by the interruptions, and in a mock serious voice, says, “Chris, if you don’t settle down, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room. You’re making me nervous.” I smile; this is one of the few times we can tell our boss to “cool it!” Kraft hesitates, gives a thumbs-up, reluctantly settles in his chair, and then mutters at the console.
The countdown progresses smoothly. It is hard to believe that this is the day we are going to launch the mission that will land on the Moon. Charlesworth gives the Cape the Go for the start of the terminal count and advises the controllers of his intention to lock the doors at launch minus nine minutes. The controllers scramble in the usual last-minute rush to the rest rooms. After the completion of the final communications checks, everyone hunkers down and I mumble a silent prayer for the crews and controllers as we start the voyage.
The launch is flawless, as if this is just another simulation on a very good day. The only indication that this is the real lunar mission is the muffled commentary of the public affairs officer, Jack Riley. Riley is a neat guy, trains as a member of the team, and covers his flight directors’ flanks just like a good wingman. Sitting next to Charlesworth, I hear Riley’s voice over the air path. He is speaking so loudly into his microphone that his words penetrate the background buzz of the room. I pick up his words . . . “lunar landing mission.” Then it sinks in. Today is different. We are launching the mission that will try to land Americans on the Moon. On this flight, America will go the final 50,000 feet.
Charlesworth continues his chatter with the controllers, giving the crew their Go’s periodically throughout powered flight. All eyes in the control room are on the plot board, as the markers plotting the radar trajectory streak along the flight path and into the cutoff box. Collins, the command module pilot, calls out “Cutoff!” at 00:11:42 MET (mission elapsed time), and the controllers scramble to call up their displays for the orbital Go NoGo decision. After a rapid conversation with his controllers in the trench, FIDO Dave Reed shouts, “Go, Flight. We are Go!” We are committed. We are in Earth orbit and there is no turning back.
I pick up the second shift after Charlesworth has guided the mission from launch through translunar injection and has extracted the lunar module from the Saturn IVB. There is little for me to do after shift handover except track the spacecraft and get the crew to sleep. This is my first experience with translunar coast, and for the first time I enjoy continuous communications while the spacecraft is en route to the Moon. Since there are no problems, my team spends the entire shift studying and noting any funnies. Each spacecraft is unique and has its own personality. Learning these characteristics is essential if the controller is to make the right calls and not get fooled under pressure.
Buck Willoughby, the CSM GNC, John Aaron, Ed Fendell, and I go over each measurement, discussing everything that is in any way different from expected. As we talk, I make notes on my spacecraft schematics and in the mission rules. SimSup has taught the controllers many lessons about data integrity. At one time or another, every controller has been faked out by his data and has made the wrong call.
The mission progresses without a glitch, and shift rotations go smoothly. By the time of my third shift rotation, my White Team is well into the groove and, for the first time, my lunar module people have something to do other than sit and fret. Except for a brief communications check on the fourth day, there is no power margin to allow us to look at lunar
module data until the final check-out for landing.
This makes it tough on my LM team and support staff rooms. The first time they will see data is when they are giving their Go NoGo’s at LM power-up, six hours before the lunar landing attempt. Their learning curve has to be near vertical, and I expect surprises as we go along. The third shift is a welcome break for my controllers as the crew pressurizes the LM and, during the middle of the shift, climbs into it to make the first in-flight visit for a visual inspection.
For the next hour and a half, the crew takes the world on a TV tour of the spacecraft, describing displays and providing a stark view of the cockpit. It’s an obvious tight fit for two crewmen. Although the LM controllers do not see data, at least they know that their spacecraft has arrived in space okay. They are finally getting a piece of the action. This is our last shift prior to landing.
After finishing with the post-shift press conference, I go over to the Singing Wheel to have a beer with the team before going home. Mission events never fall into neat, equally spaced increments of eight hours. My team must take thirty-two hours off to synchronize with the lunar trajectory for landing. During this thirty-two-hour period Charlesworth will get the spacecraft into lunar orbit, then Milt Windler, the Maroon Team flight director, will have the crew trim the orbit and then perform another interior inspection of the LM. Four flight control teams are being used for the lunar phase of the mission to provide flexibility and, once the LM is on the lunar surface, to support the CSM solo orbital operations. Lunney will come in for the shift preceding mine, presiding over the crew sleep and, with the assistance of the Trench, nailing down the final trajectory for landing. This “whifferdill,” as we call it, sets up the shift sequence for my shift for landing. (A “whifferdill” is the controllers’ term for an adjustment to a shift schedule in order to accommodate events that are going to take place in the lunar phase.)
The pre-mission flight plan has the crew in the LM going to sleep after landing, but no one believes it will happen. During the whifferdill Charlesworth moves into a shifting position so we can give a Go and be ready for an EVA shortly after the Stay NoStay decisions. Whifferdills happen every mission and are pretty messy. Sometimes you come on shift with only an eight-hour gap with the previous one, other times the adjustment is as much as thirty-two hours. You just have to tell your body to ignore how it feels and get on with the job.
The few patrons in the Singing Wheel are watching the TV news as my team orders a couple of pitchers of beer. I glance up as I hear my voice coming from the TV in the bar. The commentator quotes me saying, “The lunar mission is on schedule; there are no problems impacting the planned landing.” When the pitchers of beer are drained, I bid a muted farewell to my teammates and then drive home. I read the newspapers, watch television, and try to force myself onto my new shift schedule. It does not work, and I fall asleep on the sofa. When I wake up, and face the extra sixteen-hour gap, I finally come to terms with the realization that the next shift is the “real one.”
I go to Saturday evening mass. Blessed by my mother with strong faith, during almost every mission, I find a way to get to church and pray for wise judgment and courage, and pray also for my team and the crew. Our pastor, Father Eugene Cargill, knows the risks and the difficulties of our work and the need for extra guidance. He knows that tomorrow is a special day, and he says a few words about it in his sermon. After mass, he talks with me briefly, finishing with a thumbs-up. Then I go home, have a great supper and a couple of beers, and Marta keeps the kids quiet when I go to bed early. I sleep well.
July 20, 1969
I wake up feeling refreshed and have a quick breakfast. The eastern horizon is just starting to show a bit of light as I hit the road. I arrive at the control center without any memory of passing through League City and Webster, small towns along the way. In an instant, it seems, I am pulling my ’67 Cougar into my parking space on the north side of the building, just as I have done hundreds of times before.
Today a guard approaches me and instantly recognizes me. He says, “We gonna land today, Mr. Kranz?” His teeth flash and I see the gold cap on his tooth. It is Moody. I don’t know his first name. He is ageless, always standing proud in a crisply pressed uniform at the MCC entrance. The name on his badge just reads “Moody.” His cheerfulness makes him as effervescent as usual, a favorite of the controllers. Moody’s greeting snaps me back to reality. I smile, give a thumbs-up, and respond, “Today’s the day. We are Go.” Additional guards are present on mission days to patrol the building and limit access to the control room. They learn to mirror our feelings, and we feel a closeness, a kinship with the MCC guards.
As I walk to the MCC, I note the “egg crate” facade over the entrance. It always sticks out as an anomaly in the four-story, featureless, windowless, boxy, pea gravel and concrete structure. To the left is our office area, its windows well lit and filled with engineers moving deliberately between offices. Approaching the MCC lobby, voices echo like in a canyon as a small group moves past me to the cafeteria for breakfast. We’ve come a long way since the roach coach back at the Cape.
The guard at the entrance nods as I pass through the lobby. He checks my badge and waves me through. The elevators are hydraulic, like a car lift, and have a habit of getting stuck between floors. Today is not the day to get stuck in an elevator so I take the stairs to the third floor, passing controllers wishing me good luck. Other than that simple statement, everyone avoids unnecessary conversation and does not intrude on my privacy. Usually there is a lot of chatter and kidding among controllers.
My footsteps echo as I walk down the high, narrow gray hallway to the control room. I have the same feeling every time I walk into the MCC. It is a place where history is being made, day by day. It is the home base, the control center for our explorers. As I continue down the hall, I get my usual vague feeling that somehow my entire life has been shaped by a power greater than me to bring me to this place, at this time.
Our target today is the Moon, traveling 2,287 miles per hour in its orbit. Mountainous, pelted by micro-meteorites, and with craters 180 miles across, it is about one fourth the size of Earth. With only one sixth of Earth’s gravity, it has no air, no moisture. The temperatures range from plus to minus 250 degrees Fahrenheit during the two-week-long lunar days and nights. This heavenly body has never seen an earthling, never felt a footstep. But, as the scientific evidence from Apollo will help confirm, Luna is our geophysical sibling, separated from us in the violent formation of Spaceship Earth.
The mission operations control room door is heavy, and entering the room, I again realize how small it really is considering the magnitude of operations that take place in it. My eyes have difficulty adjusting to the heavy gray-blue gloom cast by the world map and the dimmed lights over the Trench. I listen to the ambient voice level of the room. It is always the first indication of what is going on. Today it is quiet. Lunney’s team is busy closing out its shift, and a lot of messages are being read by the CapCom.
I glance at the TV of the flight plan to the right of the room. The astronauts are awake and well into post-sleep activities. Many of my White Team controllers are on the console and already starting handover. Jerry Bostick, chief of the Flight Dynamics Branch, is standing behind the Trench, listening to his controllers. He is tall, thin, wears a coat, and has allowed his black hair to grow long; he used to have a crew cut like mine. He is in the process of taking a pulse check on his people. Bostick is like some permanent fixture in the MCC; I wonder if he ever sleeps because he is always there, standing behind his controllers, head cocked, coaching his people.
The coat rack is overly full. It swings like a pendulum and it threatens to tip over as I hang up my sport coat. The trip to the flight director console is like walking through a minefield, dodging books, lunches, and the spaghetti of headset cords. The room smells of cigarettes, with an overlay of pizza, stale sandwiches, full wastebaskets, and coffee that has burned onto the hot plates. The smell h
as never changed since we opened the control center four years ago.
A bouquet of roses glows red against the gray wall of the Mission Control room. The bouquet always arrives as we near launch day for the Apollo missions. The accompanying card simply states “from an admirer.” Initially they came from Dallas, subsequently from various Canadian cities, and then the eastern United States. The sender became known among the controllers simply as the “flower lady.” For us they were a tangible link with someone who represented the hopes and good wishes of the millions who cheered us on as we pushed deeper into space. We would not know the name of this anonymous supporter until the end of the Apollo mission, when we received, for the first time, a card signed with only the sender’s first name, Cindy. It became almost a talisman; the launch flight director always wanted to know that the flowers had arrived—and they always had every time. We placed the flowers in a vase on a small table to the right and beneath the operation room’s ten-by-ten-foot TV screen. This was in the area where we normally congregated to celebrate a successful mission. We knew that the TV cameras would pick up the roses sitting there in the background, thus showing our appreciation to the unknown well-wisher.